“The heroic Nerevarine, sacrificing all to protect Morrowind from the mad Sotha Sil. But you live! You live! Fear not. I will tell the tale myself when this is done. I will tell my people how with your dying breath you proclaimed your devotion to me, the one true god.”
My piece for @dotzines‘ Boss Rush! The zine can be downloaded for free over here!
I’ve posted my nerevarine a couple of times without talking about them at all so I’m just gonna do that now
Their name is Areni! Their parents are a messenger from Mournhold and the daughter of an outcast Ashlander who’s a scout and hunter in Maar Gan. They moved to Cyrodiil not super long after becoming a couple and adopted Areni as a baby from an Imperial orphanage.
Areni is an archer, they learnt from their mum (I’m an eternal stealth archer oops ) They’re pretty unassertive and it’s easy to push them into doing things that they don’t necessarily want to do, so they’ve got some unresolved resentment over being forced into the role of Nerevarine
Alvivecia: Don’t worry, everything’s under control. We just had a little situation here. Just a little internal situation. My friend just went a little crazy. Happens to everybody. The House of Troubles gets to us all. Just went a little cuckoo in the head.
Oromis, having mantled Sheogorath: Don’t you be calling me cuckoo in the head!
You know, when I play Morrowind I tend to make custom spells and give them proper names. My most favourite one is Restoration spell called “Gentle touch”…
Be calm, Falre, our long-awaited Nerevarine, as you are in good hands.
i came up with a backstory for my nerevarine, falre, and long story short it is very sad, the moms are gone, but a sweet old enchanter gets a chance to raise falre as his own, and he’s a great father. if you’re want to know more i wrote a LONG thread about falre’s backstory on twitter, you can read it here if you’re interested.
Falre used to be such an adorable kid, I say. Love the way you wrapped up pre-history and connected to the game’s plot!
All of Morrowind seemed to be silent the day Vivec emerged from the Clockword City with the bodies of his fellow Tribunes.
The Living God walked in a dignified stride in front of the few Buoyant Armigers who had accompanied hir. Lady Almalexia and Lord Sotha Sil draped lifeless over the arms of the two uncomfortable mer stationed behind Vivec. Holding the corpse of your deity was not ideal to the soldiers, but they had little choice but obey when Vivec told them to carry them. Crowds of nobles and peasants alike parted to allow the procession to pass through on their way to pyre where the Tribunes would be honorably cremated. Young children hid behind legs, while their mothers stared wide-eyed. Men looked to the ground with lumps in their throat as older, thoroughly religious women quietly wailed into the arms of their sons.
The Dunmer were terrified. The Blight, though over, still weighed heavy on their souls. When the news that not one, but two of their gods had perished, chaos ensued. The Great Houses, Indoril especially, panicked. What did this mean? House Dunmer culture was rooted in their faith, how would this affect politics? Day to day life? Would the citizens turn their back on the Temple? Morrowind would surely perish without the Tribunes protection and wisdom.
Their Lord Vivec’s expression was unreadable as ze took his god-siblings and placed them on the pyre. Deep inside hir, ze felt hir supposedly lost mortality flare in anger at the sight of the Nerevarine solemnly standing with her head bowed. But hir composure was kept as ze turned to face the fearful crowd. Hir speech was swift and short, unlike the usual beguiling words his people expected from hir. An uncomfortable grief had made itself home in hir, now was not the time to use metaphors and a magical tongue to confuse and reassure hir subjects. Ze allowed the Nerevarine to tell the story of the Tribunes’ demise- how a powerful sorceress had murdered the Clockwork God and released his mechanisms into Almalexia’s beloved city to lure her in and drive a sword through her heart. Ignoring the people’s bewildered expressions(how had one woman defeated two gods?), Vivec sent a subtle nod of thanks to the Nerevarine for her deception, for ze knew her words were fabricated without having been told. “Lady Almalexia and Lord Sotha Sil were once heroes, let them be remembered as such,” the Hortator would later tell hir. The irony of those words being spoken by Nerevar-reborn was not lost on hir.
Vivec saw how hir subjects looked towards hir for guidance. The Nerevarine was their hero of legend, and her presence was of great significance, but Vivec was their God. Ze was meant to be their guidance in trying times, to lead them to the next great chapter of Morrowind’s story. Ze had been there through terrible wars and occupations. Hir sharp tongue blessed them with laughter and hope and hir riddles gave them motivation to love and care for their homeland more than any race on Tamriel (even at the expense of others). Today, ze offered them nothing.
The Living God was weary, and hir weariness was continuing to grow into exhaustion. Divine power being drained out of you like a cosmic vacuum was not a pleasant nor an easy experience. Hir empire, once greater than the warriors of Yokuda, was dying. Hir Divine Brother and Sister (who he once called his friends, long ago) had fallen. Everything they’d built from the ashes of a troubled land had perished.
And ze’d known the day would come. Ze was a god, after all. Ze knew everything and nothing all at once. What ze didn’t know was the grief that would follow. The aching sensation of a long forgotten feeling, deep in hir body, squeezing hir lungs and pounding on hir stomach. What was ze meant to do now? How could ze console an entire province, keep an entire race stable when ze can’t even predict hir own reaction to an event ze’d already foreseen?
The Nerevarine followed hir with a watchful eye as ze retreated from the ceremony prematurely, dismissing the Armigers who attempted to follow hir. The crowd of Dunmer now hardly noticed hir absence in their mourning. She felt what ze was feeling, to an extent. Someone inside of her, someone she didn’t know but was a part of her, felt the same sadness; the same longing for a different time. A happier time.
The Great Temple meant to house the remains of Mother Morrowind and Clockwork God took four months to build, from Rain’s Hand to Last Seed. Located in the heart of Necrom, it was a great temple of lava rock and stone, crafted by the finest materials Morrowind had to offer, guarded by the fiercest Dunmeri warriors. The magister’s of House Telvanni assisted in the construction, as the magic used to build this holy place could only be done by those adept in ancient Dunmeri practices, of course. House Indoril nobles bickered over schematics and design, and even House Hlaalu offered their finest craftsmen for the construction. All the while, Vivec stayed holed in hir chambers for most of this time, only accepting the occasional pilgrim. Ze never dared visit the temporary temple the Tribune’s ashes were being held during the construction. Did ze even dare visit the Great Temple after it’s construction?
Ze did. After a long while, of laying in piles of crumpled up parchment with failed poetry, ze made the trek to Necrom to visit hir friends. The temple was grandeur, far from hir own humble beginnings. The inside was littered with candles and offerings of all sorts; flowers and fruit and clockwork gears and unlit incense. Large, intricate statues of the ALMSIVI reached the ceiling. In the center sat the ash pit of Almalexia, Mother Morrowind, the heart of the Dunmer. To the left, Sotha Sil, and to the right, at Vivec’s request, an empty ashpit, meant for hir.
“How sad of a sight this is, old friend,” Vivec spoke to Sotha Sil as if he were there, pouring a part of hir bottle of flin in the ash and settling hirself on the stone floor. “We’d spoken of this moment. What the other would have wanted of the temple. You, Ayem,” A memory of a smile ghosted across hir face and ze turned to Almalexia’s statue. “What a handful you are. You sent the Houses in circles trying their best to fulfill your wishes. But you deserve nothing less, my queen.”
Silence, again. Such a quiet and cold room for them to rest in. Their souls were too bright for this.
“We spoke of it often,” Ze continued. “However, we never considered that one, but not three, that two, but not all of us would go. What else am I to do now? How am I to look over our people without the other halves of me? I am unwhole.”
Vivec sighed. A sound that carried through the whole temple. A mouse in the corner scurried into its hide.
“They still love us, they still follow our teachings, but how long will that last? Time changes culture and tradition quickly and you are not here to help me guide it,” Ze whispered the next part quietly. “How long will Ilast?”
Somewhere, in a land unknown by anyone but herself, the Nerevarine woke with a start. An unbearable sadness settled through her and tears welled in her eyes.
“There is nothing left for me in Morrowind, my dearest friends. I must leave.”
Vivec was standing now, slowly making hir way to the temple door. Hir legs ached and hir eyes were sunken. Ze was sickly.
“Don’t be mistaken, this is not the end of us. We will not die out to history.”
The Nerevarine held her head in her hands, breathing harsh and fast.
Morrowind was not a pleasant place. Seyrena had known that even before the prison ship had docked in the waters of Seyda Neen. Even the other Dunmer in Cyrodiil spoke of the ashy air, unpleasant patrons, and the lingering scent of tar that followed wherever one went. The province was disagreeable even at its best, and on nights like tonight she longed for rolling hills and sweet-smelling lavender fields of Cyrodiil.
Because… well, Cyrodiil was her home, was it not? It was the only place she ever remembered being. Cyrodiil was where she grew up, where she learned her trade and fell in love for the first time and where she’d made her mistakes. Mistakes that had landed her here. In Morrowind. A hot, unfamiliar, wretched land.
It should be unfamiliar, at least. Recently it had felt more and more like home. She did not want Morrowind to feel like home. She never asked for any of this. She never asked to be the savior of an ancestral land she’d never even been to. She never asked to be the incarnate of a man who’d died so long ago his existence was unfathomable. Never asked to be forced to bring the downfall of three fervently worshipped gods, one of whom had given her a welcome she did not deserve. Never asked to have to stand over the corpses of two mer who she apparently once called friends in a life she didn’t remember. Never asked tofeel like she’d killed her own friends.
Seyrena sighed deeply and took another swig of the unknown drink. It tasted like guar piss but it got her intoxicated and that was all she cared about. That, and the fact that the patrons of the small tavern in Pelagiad hadn’t a clue who she was. If she had to hear the title ‘Nerevarine’ one more time she would certainly slice the fingers off of whatever poor soul it was who’d said it.
No, to the Dunmer of the Halfway Tavern she was just any old Empire-assimilated Dunmer. An outlander; a term she’d hated when she first arrived in Morrowind but longed to be called again. She was an outlander. Her own personal feelings of the Empire aside, she was of the Empire. Raised in Cyrodiil. There was nothing else she knew and nothing else she wanted to know.
A year ago that was how it had been. The alcohol in her hand let her pretend that’s how it still was.
“If you’re not careful there, elf, you’ll drink yourself to death with that,” A voice mumbled from a few feet beside her. She looked up from the corner she was sitting in. A grizzly-looking Nord man sat on the bench to the right of her, watching the bard sing and swing with harsh eyes. His clothes were splattered with dirt and grime and his hand gripped a large wooden mug. The stench of alcohol filled her nose even with his distance from her and she wondered how he was one to talk.
“I can handle my drinks just fine, Nord,” She replied coolly, also averting her eyes to the bard. A pretty young Breton woman playing the lute and singing tales of dragons. Seyrena was glad there were no songs written about her feats just yet.
The man laughed a hearty but mocking laugh and she scowled at him. She hadn’t said anything funny.
“You Dark Elves wouldn’t know drink if it slapped you in the arse,” He was looking at her now with a dangerously mocking smile.
“Well, I grew up in Cyrodiil so I’d wager I know more than you think I do,” She took another sip of her drink as if to prove a point. “And whatever this is, it’s certainly better than that poor excuse for alcohol you call mead.”
He laughed again, and again she did not know what she said that was so funny.
“Imperials are even worse!” He managed to breathe out between howling laughs. He was obviously very drunk if he found a conversation about beverages so hilarious. Seyrena turned away from him and went back to festering in her own misery and regret and longing for a life that no longer existed. She’d rather that than any sort of conversation with a drunken man.
Apparently the gods were again, not on her side and Nords were unable to take obvious hints, because he continued speaking to her. Spoke to her about his homeland(“If this were Skyrim I’d teach you a thing or two about mead, lass”), about how he was grateful the Empire was reigning in the uncivilized Dunmer(“Imperials are good for something, at least”), and finally, about the pretty little Breton girl dancing along to her tunes.
“They don’t make them like that in Skyrim,” He grunted, watching the bard with a look that made Seyrena’s stomach twist. “We Nords are beasts of men, good for fighting and drinking. But it makes for unflattering women at the very least.”
Her anger was only growing at this point, fingertips clenching into her own fists. The young woman was simply trying to make coin, perform, and havefun. She didn’t need some malodorous man twice her age commenting on her appearance. If Skyrim was so much better then maybe he should return.
“Is that why you’re here instead of Skyrim? Because of the unflatteringwomen?” Her tone was cold but the man was too drunk to notice.
“Ha! No, despite her flaws I’d return in a heartbeat, if I could. I’ve been exiled for one reason or another.”
Well, wasn’t that poetic.
The Nord stood, steadying himself on a wooden post and slamming his mug on the table. Seyrena narrowed her eyes.
“Well, I’d best be off. Better if I talk to the bard before some other skeever can get his hands on- hey! W-What’re ‘ya doin’?”
Perhaps it was the alcohol, or her desire to protect the Breton girl, or maybe it was just because she’d had the worst year of her life. But Seyrena found herself with her longsword drawn and pointed to the Nord’s throat, his eyes wide with fear and hands up in surrender. So much for the mighty warrior.
She was also, suddenly, very aware of the people in the room with her; as they’d all turned to stare at the quiet Dunmer in the corner with her sword to a man. Pelagiad was a quiet and no-nonsense settlement. They weren’t quite sure what to make of the scene. And then, her voice rang out from the crowd.
“Rena? What on Nirn-“
Mehra pushed her way to the front of the forming crowd. She looked as beautiful as ever, dressed in a quaint traveler’s garb with her hickory-colored hair let loose to fall over her shoulders. She looked quite different from the Temple-apprentice Seyrena had met what felt like so long ago; older, only by a year, but her eyes held the same burden Seyrena’s did. Seyrena swallowed. Mehra didn’t deserve to be weighed down by her troubles.
Mehra pulled her ash-cover down from over her face, looking incredulously at the scene Seyrena had created. Seyrena couldn’t fully tell if the look on her face was one of disappointment or defeat.
Before her lover could even get a word out, Drelasa came marching over, huffing something about outlanders. Seyrena rolled her eyes.
“Mehra, I am fond of you but if your friend is going to cause scenes in my tavern you’ll never see the inside of it again!” Drelasa wagged her finger in Mehra’s face and Seyrena had the impulse to swing her sword and cut it off.
“I know, Publican, I-“ Mehra turned to Seyrena, her eyes pleading. “Rena, please. It’s a day long trip back to Seyda Neen.”
Seyrena scoffed and looked back to the Nord who was now backed up against the wall. “You leave that girl alone or I’ll cut off your hands and stitch your lips shut.”
The Nord nodded, and she lowered her sword. He scurried off like a mouse out of the Inn to the border of the Ascadian Isles and the Bitter Coast.
She defeatedly let Mehra take her sword from her and place it back in its sheath on her back. The Publican was still watching them, arms crossed and tapping her foot.
“It won’t happen again, Drelasa. I apologize on behalf of both of us.” Mehra sounded sincerely sorry and Seyrena felt a pang of guilt.
“You’re damn right it won’t happen again. B’vehk, it’s every other night with you two.”
Mehra took Seyrena’s hand and led her to their room. The latter Dunmer’s head was held low, not out of shame but in an effort to keep any patron from doing a double-take on her. “Hey, aren’t you that…”
When the two reached privacy, Mehra’s fist promptly collided with Seyrena’s shoulder. Much harder than she’d expected the mage would’ve been capable of.
“Ow,” She muttered, rubbing the raw skin. Mehra’s gaze was as fiery as her palms in battle, and Seyrena found herself unable to meet it.
“Why do you do these things to us? Do you want to have to walk miles in ash to find a new place to stay again?”
“He was being a s’wit,” She silently cursed herself for using the Dunmeris term. This was not her home.
“So was the Imperial Guardsman in Suran, and the Telvanni Noble in Sadrith Mora, oh! And, of course, the poor fellow who simply wanted your autograph in-“
“Alright! Alright, I get it. I ruin everything I touch. I’m sorry.”
Seyrena took a seat on the bed and pulled Mehra to stand in front of her. Apologies weren’t her strong suit. It was hard to apologize to someone else for your actions when you couldn’t forgive yourself for them. So, she intertwined their hands and looked up at her with the most apologetic eyes she could muster, her actions speaking the words that got lost in her throat.
Mehra sighed. “You don’t ruin everything.”
“I do.”
“You don’t. In fact, you make many things quite grand,” She smiled and Seyrena, who smiled back despite herself. “You saved me, for instance. You saved Morrowind. Twice.”
Seyrena’s smile dropped and she moved away from the other woman, laying down on the bed and turning the other way. She wished Morrowind just did not exist at this moment.
“I doomed it, more like,” She said. “Doomed to it to a future of political discourse and perhaps even religious wars.”
“That is inevitable for this country.”
Seyrena made a sound of exasperation and sat up again. “You don’t understand, Mehra. I know what is good for Morrowind. I don’t know how and I truly wish I didn’t, but I do. And this was not. Yes, Dagoth Ur had to die. The Blight had to end. But how can you diminish everything a country believes in, how can you kill-“ Her voice caught and tears threatened to spill from her eyes, which she absolutely would not allow. “How can you kill a goddess who has spent thousands of years keeping a country and it’s people afloat and expect everything to be the same, or better?”
“Almalexia went mad. It wasn’t your fault.”
“But she wouldn’t have!” Seyrena cried, frustrated that Mehra couldn’t understand what she was saying. “She wouldn’t have if it wasn’t for my existence! Everyone keeps telling me I am a blessing, that this prophecy Azura created is a blessing; it’s a curse, Mehra. It’s a curse of vengeance and I don’t want to be a part of it. I never did. I don’t want this,” The Moon-And-Star ring slipped off her finger and was thrown across the room. The tears were now falling freely from Seyrena’s face. “I’d rather have been executed for my crimes in Cyrodiil. It would’ve been merciful.”
Mehra was quiet, and now she was the one who couldn’t look at Seyrena. It was silent for what could’ve been hours.
“There’s so much blood on my hands and no matter how often I wash them it won’t go away. Please, just make it go away.”
Still not speaking, Mehra pulled the Nerevarine into her arms and held her as she sobbed. There were no words that could be spoken to comfort her at that moment, she knew that. But it broke her heart to watch the woman who she viewed as a hero come undone before her.
Eventually Seyrena pulled away from her, dried tears stuck to her face. Her eyes were wide and bright and Mehra wanted to latch onto her before she realized the vulnerability she’d showed and promptly went to bed.
“I want to go east,” She said, surprising Mehra.
“East? Like, back to Azura’s Coast? I suppose-“
The Nerevarine shook her head. “No. Farther. I want to leave Tamriel. I want to see something else, anything else.”
Mehra’s mouth opened and closed a few times. “But-“ She’d heard stories of other continents on Nirn, and none of them were good.
For a moment she believed her beloved had lost her mind right there and then. That the stress was too much to handle. But Seyrena’s eyes were dead serious and her composure was eerily calm.
Насмотревшись стекла про Неревара и Ворина, я внезапно сваяла им хэппиэнд. Стараюсь не чмырить себя за эту слабость х) Нереварин встречает возродившегося Ворина, и благодаря странному стечению обстоятельств и набегу культистов они вспоминают друг друга.
